Chances and Circumstances
by mbali
Summary: Legolas reminisces about his first meeting with Aragorn, which was not exactly at the best of circumstances. COMPLETED
1. Default Chapter

Author's Note: Alright! Well, first of all, I'm sorry about the formatting on my first piece, but hopefully this one will work better. If all turns out good, I hope to double my reviews for this fanfic; that means 2. Also, the point of view stuff is a little weird, I usually don't like writing in first person.  
  
Title: Chances and Circumstances  
  
Summary: Legolas reminisces about his first meeting with Aragorn, which was not exactly at the best of circumstances.  
  
* * * It will never matter that it doesn't matter * * *  
  
Legolas' POV  
  
Sitting at the Council of Elrond, listening to Mitrandir speak, I thought of how I was to break the bad news to all sitting there, the news of Gollum's escape. My thoughts wandered, to Gollum's arrival at my home, Mirkwood. Aragorn, my good friend, had stumbled into the borders of our haven, delirious with fever and near collapse, but pulling the long-sought- after creature on a leash: Gollum.  
  
And this brought me back, more than sixty years ago, to my first meeting with Aragorn. He was a lighter, more care-free man then, and did not carry the burden he had now. At the time, however, the circumstances of our meeting were not exactly the best.  
  
A troupe of six, including my brother Fanduil and I, were hunting a pack of wargs. We had been tracking the pack for the past four days and were now quite close. It had been many years since wargs had been a problem in Mirkwood, but the times were starting to change and grow darker. We could all feel it, even if we did not all want to accept it.  
  
It was late afternoon, and we had come to the consensus that on the fifth day, we would finish our hunt. If all went well, the pack of wargs would be dead before noon tomorrow. The method of slaughter would be a surprise attack from a safe distance, relying on our arrows and not out knives.  
  
While the others were making camp, I went scouting out ahead. I was far away from the others when I hear the vicious barking of the wargs, quite close. Wargs only bark when they are on the trail of prey. Quickly I jumped up to a tree, and made my way though the dense branched to the source of the noise. I found myself next to a rock clearing of sorts. To my left was a steep cliff, more rocks, and then a continuation of the dense trees. I could have been the site for an old elven den or other building, but I did not think much about it in the events that followed.  
  
The wargs were approaching, barking madly. I pulled out my bow, which I had brought with me as an afterthought, usually relying on my knife if any immediate danger was to occur. In the case of wargs, however, I preferred to use my bow because less contact was needed, as was advisable when dealing with such deadly creatures. However, the bow was unstrung, and as I started stringing it rapidly with expert hands, I saw what the wargs were after: a man.  
  
He was sprinting as fast as he could with the pack on his heels, but he was running rather awkwardly. His arms were behind his back as if bound, and his neck and back were very straight. I glanced at something gleaming at the man's throat, a flash of metal, and noticed as well that his feet were bare.  
  
He came to the edge of the cliff and, with but a moments pause, threw himself over the side. For a second he flew through the air, then, as the side of the cliff became less vertical, tumbled down the edge. He tried to keep his legs out in front of him, but he struck the side of his face on an outcropping of rock, and his lifeless body tumbled down the rest of the way.  
  
The wards took their time going down the cliff, and I desperately tried to string to my bow. I saw the man was awake, but he had not gotten to his feet. Instead, he had wearily sat up and placed his back against the nearest boulder, a good defensive position, and was waiting for the wargs. I jumped gracefully from the branched of the tree and ran to the side of the cliff to have a better shot at the creatures.  
  
The man, with his barefeet, was defending himself, kicking desperately at a warg. I now saw clearly that his hand were bound behind his back in a pair of silver cuffs. The warg grasped the man's ankle in his jaws. Another had come around the back and went for the throat. But the silver collar the man had on prevented it from sinking its teeth in. I could hear him shouting something in desperation and agony, and with surprise, realized it was elvish. Not the Sindarian that I spoke, but Quenyan.  
  
Wasting no further time, I shot the attacking warg in the heart. I shot another in the haunches, and yet another straight though it's skull. Yelping, the wounded one ran off, along with the rest of the pack.  
  
I hastened down the edge of the cliff, careful not to fall. It was tricky, even for an elf, and I had to crouch down on my feet and slide down the last part. When I got to the bottom, I made my way over to the man, bow in hand. I still did not know who this stranger was.  
  
The man, for I knew for certain that it was a man now, was sitting in the same place. Eyes closed tightly and face contorted in pain. He was breathing hard, the result of the chase and tumble down the rocks. Blood flowed freely from his broken nose, and his left temple was also bruised and bloody from where he had his head in his fall. Once again I noticed the odd silver collar around his neck, and noticed, for the first time, the shaft of an arrow imbedded in the stranger's side. It was not a new wound; the man was a bloody wreck.  
  
Slowly, he opened his eyes and glanced around, his gray gaze settling on me. He took a deep breath and said, "Thank you, friend," in flawless Sindarian.  
  
Detecting no trace of accent, I realized that he must be fluent in both languages. He took another deep breath, and resting his head against the stone, fell into unconsciousness.  
  
* * * * * TBC! 


	2. Strider

Author's Note  
  
yes! yay! 8 Reviews so far! I'm actually really excited, this being pretty much my first few fanfics. Hmm..well, I figured out how to separate paragraphs, thanks to some considerate reviewers, and now I'd just like to be able to make indentations! I know, I don't like first person much myself. What if I just switched to third person in the next chapter or so? Or would that be too weird?  
  
  
  
Chapter 2:  
  
. In all my years in Middle Earth, I had never been faced with such a situation. Frankly, I didn't know what to do. There is an old saying amongst elves, "The enemy of my enemy is a friend." That, plus the fact that both dialects of elvish seemed to be his native languages, I deemed him ally. With a very limited knowledge of healing, I set about tending to his wounds. I saw now how his hands were clasped, behind his back in silver cuffs, with a chain attached tightly to the collar at his throat. This prevented any movement of his arms, or else he would strangle himself.  
  
I did not know how long he had been tied up so, but the tortuous device made me wince. I could see small amounts of dried blood under the manacles and livid bruises, and I knew that the muscles in his arms and shoulders would be cramping. I would have undone the bindings, but I could see no keyhole nor any other means of freeing him; so for the time, I let them be.  
  
The stranger's feet were mangled, probably from running on sharp rocks and undergrowth. The warg bite at his ankle was mostly superficial, but he would be limping for a few days. Aside from some other unserious bruises, the arrow wound to his side seemed to be the most critical of his injuries. The man ran a slight fever, and I guessed that it resulted from an infection from the arrow. There was nothing I could do for him without the help of my companions, for one among them, Ithuril, was a healer. With one last glance at the mysterious stranger, I scaled the cliff-side in search of my friends.  
  
I hurried back to the campsite. All was well and at peace there, for I had not been gone very long. I explained to them what had happened. My brother, Fanduil, was the first to respond:  
  
"How do we know he is not an enemy?"  
  
I hesitated in my reply, for I did not know for sure, but I felt in my soul and knew with my elven foresight that he was a friend. "Well, for certain, we do not know. But I do know that he is an enemy of our enemies, the wargs, and that he spoke perfect Sindarian when he addressed me as friend."  
  
Helebriath, an old and respected warrior, spoke up. "If what Legolas says is true, that he addressed the wargs in a form of elvish, even while he was being attacked, then it would appear that Quenyan is indeed his native language. If he is a friend of elves, then he is a friend of ours."  
  
There were murmurs in agreement, but still my brother was hesitant. "And what if he is not?" Fanduil asked. "What if he is not a friend but a dangerous man and evil rival?"  
  
"Then we will kill him," I answered strongly, wanting to end the argument. I realized that the man was still in danger if the wargs returned, and that we must hurry if we were to save him. "I do not think that any man, let alone an injured and exhausted one, could stand up to six elven warriors such as ourselves. But in the mean time, would we be so uncompassionate as to let die someone who might be a friend?"  
  
My brother was convinced, and we agreed to let Helebriath and two others stay and guard the campsite, while the healer Ithuril, Fanduil and I would go to save the strange man.  
  
We made our way quickly and stealthily there. The sun was beginning to set, an orange glow on the gray horizon. There would still be about two hours until it was set completely, and then another half hour until full darkness.  
  
The man was still in the same spot when I had left him, if slumped over slightly more. He was still unconscious.  
  
Ithuril took a look at his arrow wound. "This is not a very new wound; perhaps three or four days old. It is deep, and has bled much, but is not hitting anything vital. We should remove it as soon as possible back at the camp, it is infected and giving him a fever."  
  
"That is what I thought," I said.  
  
Fanduil was looking at the manacles on the human's wrists and neck. "I can find no way to open these," he spoke, "I will try and cut them off."  
  
Using his knife, he started sawing at the chains. His blade was of elven make, and the metal was common and not very hard. Fanduil had almost cut through one of the chains when the man stirred.  
  
His eyes blinked and he looked at us in a half-slitted gaze. Fanduil and Ithuril had stepped back, but I remained where I was. "Who are you?" I asked.  
  
We three braced ourselves, expecting the worst. A sudden attack? His last dying words? Instead, he cracked a grin.  
  
"I am Strider, a ranger and a friend of Lord Elrond." He tried to sit up a little, wincing slightly as he did.  
  
"I would not be grinning if I were in your position," my brother said gravely, if not slightly relieved.  
  
"Ah, Mirkwood elves, I am greatly in your debt, though I am surprised that you show me such hospitality."  
  
I laughed at his slightly sarcastic remark. It is true that we are known to be suspicious folk. Noticing how he licked his dry and cracked lips, I offered him my waterskin, which he gladly accepted. I squirted water into his mouth while Fanduil finished sawing the chain. Though he still had the cuffs, the chain that tied them together had been separated. His arms fell to his sides and he grimaced.  
  
"Four days and three nights like that. They went numb after the first few hours, and now I cannot move my arms."  
  
"Nor can you walk on those feet," Ithuril said. "We shall have to carry you back to camp."  
  
TBC  
  
eh. good enough place as any to leave off I guess. 


	3. Rescue

Author's Note:  
  
The reviews are lovely! Funny too, and they help me out a LOT. Thanks for clearing up the elven languages. I remembered the names kinda, but didn't bother checking them up.  
  
I don't think this is going to be a very long fic, probably just another chap after this one. So I'll stick with first person.  
  
I'm noticing how stiff the writing is sounding. I tried to make it.I dunno.looser, but I don't think it worked. Oh well, I guess that's just my style.  
  
No, this will not be a slash. I'm not a big fan of that.  
  
Chapter 3  
  
The sun had set completely by the time the three of us had made it over the cliff carrying the injured man, but with our sharp elven eyes we saw everything in the twilight. Even in the denseness of the forest, where little light streamed through the trees in full sun, we saw every root and rock and underbrush. Eyes of tiny nocturnal rodents peeped out at us, shining in the semidarkness.  
  
To surmount the steepness of the cliff side, we ended up walking around to the side, where it was easier to climb. I held Strider's legs, and Ithuril held under his arms while my brother led the way. The human had made no sound as we lifted him up, but by the time we had climbed up to the top, he had passed out.  
  
We walked on in silence, weaving a way between the thick trunks and thorn bushes. There was no path to follow, and we could not travel on the branches of the trees as we were accustomed to doing.  
  
My brother interrupted the silence. "What will we do with him?"  
  
I had been thinking about the same question, and had come to no real conclusion. The human needed shelter and time to rest and heal, and we could not forsake our hunt on the wargs when were so close. "After Ithuril heals him, we will continue on with our hunt. I have done my duty and killed three of the wargs, so I can stay behind with him, to guarantee his recovery."  
  
"And what will we do with him then?" Fanduil asked.  
  
"I don't know. Perhaps we shall know when the time comes."  
  
"Perhaps," Fanduil replied dryly.  
  
It was uncharacteristic for my brother to be so.pessimistic. Then again, we had never been in such a situation. In fact, neither of us had had much contact with humans, and I was beginning to wonder if he held a prejudice towards them as some elves still did. I knew well enough that they were a weaker race, but I was hesitant to form opinions without some experience. And from what I had seen so far, this human was not so weak.  
  
I was still thinking about this when we reached the campsite. The other elves greeted us and studied the man questioningly. They examined the shackles, but none knew where they came from. Ithuril and I placed him on a mat we had laid down on the forest floor. We had no tent, typically sleeping on the ground or comfortably up in the trees; but because it was late summer and still in the dry season, we figured that the human would be okay on the ground.  
  
Strider had not yet woken, and the healer set about making preparations. Another elf was starting a small fire a few strides from where the man lay. Fanduil was nowhere to be seen. He had probably wandered off somewhere, but I was getting annoyed at the way he was acting and paid no heed. Instead, I helped Ithuril by cutting away the tattered shirt covering the mans wound. Signs of awakening showed on the man's face, flushed with fever.  
  
Ithuril, who had been boiling water and dissolving some herbs that were unknown to me into it, handed me the concoction in a small wooden bowl.  
  
"Make sure he drinks all of this. It will help his fever, and lessen his pain," he said.  
  
Strider did not say anything as I helped him drink the liquid. His good humor had gone and his face was now clouded with hurt. I could not say why, but I had a growing fondness for this strange man, and I wanted him to live for reasons beyond simple curiosity for his puzzling position.  
  
Ithuril instructed me to hold down the man's shoulders while he removed the arrow. I gingerly placed my hands on his abused muscles.  
  
"Brace yourself, Strider," Ithuril said. "This is going to be painful."  
  
With a swift movement, he extracted the arrow. Strider thrashed out, even in his weakened condition almost throwing me off. A hoarse cry uttered from his lips, and he slumped back, breathing hard, eyes tightly shut.  
  
The healer held the arrow up in the firelight, inspecting to be sure that the arrow head had not broken off and was still lodge in the man's guts. It was a black and evil thing, dripping with the man's dark blood. The crudeness of the arrow's make confirmed that it was of orc origin. This only added to the mystery surrounding the man. Orcs had been spotted in Mirkwood before, but seldom; more seldom than wargs. Was this another sign of the foulness slowly permeating through Middle Earth?  
  
Ithuril pressed a cloth the human's side, trying to staunch the blood. He quickly stitched up the wound and bandaged it. I cut away the cuffs on his wrists and throat, careful not to cut the flesh, which was skinned and bruised but not otherwise injured. Ithuril tended the minor injuries, and saw to the man's battered feet, cleansing and dressing them.  
  
With a sigh of relief, I noticed that Strider was overcome by a painless sleep.  
  
The rest of my companions were lying on the ground around me or up in the tree tops, resting before the hunt tomorrow. I passed the night on guard, musing over the events of the day, and pondering over the man called Strider.  
  
***  
  
TBC 


	4. Explantions and the End

Author's Note  
  
This is the last chapter. I've decided to end it here because, as enjoying as Legolas and Aragorn epic adventure stories are, I really don't have the attention span to continue!  
  
Although this is not a slash story at all, I couldn't help but make Legolas a little more sensitive ( as in perception and emotions) than your average man. That's just how I think elves are, and not to worry, he's totally masculine!  
  
I liked how Legolas seemed ignorant about humans at the end, and enjoyed writing it. But, I'm a little disappointed in the ending of this fic. I guess I kinda wrote myself into a corner, so to speak, and it ends up being a somewhat anticlimactic ending. Oh well. I'm sorry if I disappoint all you faithful readers and reviews out there!  
  
But not to worry, I have an AWESOMELY cool fic coming up. See more author's notes at the end of chapter.  
  
  
  
*** It doesn't matter  
  
  
  
Chapter 4:  
  
  
  
It was mind morning, and bright was the sky beyond the trees as I studied the face on the man lying before me. I had not had a chance to do so before now; but with the rest of my companions gone on with the hunt, I took the opportunity.  
  
His face was no longer flushed; the fever had broken in the night and he was now sleeping peacefully. His jaw was strong and firm, his chin chiseled. The stubble and beginnings of a beard looked strange to me because elves did not grow hair on their faces as men did. The human's nose was straight, though heavy with bruises from his fall. His brow was smooth, though marred with a small gash. Having no concept of human age, I could not tell how old he was; but the absence of wrinkles and gray hairs led me to believe he wasn't old. Strider's hair, dark brown and medium length, was filthy and matted.  
  
I smiled, absently fingering my own perfectly straight, combed, and clean blond hair, and waited for him to wake up.  
  
He awoke in the afternoon, after more than 16 hours of sleeping. His eyes fluttered open, and I noticed for the first time how his gray eyes had something about them, a tint of blue and something more that made them look elvish. Not for the first time wondered who Strider really was.  
  
"Welcome back, my friend," I said, kneeling beside him.  
  
"I owe you my life, and I do not even know your name." he said, and I helped him sit up a little and offered him water. He accepted, gulping it down.  
  
"My name is Legolas. How do you feel?"  
  
He laughed. "Better. Much better, but I still feel quite horrible, and stiff."  
  
I grinned. "I thought as much. How is your side?"  
  
"It is fine. Your healer did a skillful job in tending to it. Where is he, and the others?"  
  
"They are off hunting the rest of the warg pack that attacked you. They should be returning before the sun sets." I paused. Though I wanted very much to know what had befallen him, I restrained myself, and offered him some Lembas.  
  
He accepted, and ate them ravenously, while I sat there watching him, amused. Did all humans eat like this? He finally noticed me staring at him. Brushing crumbs from the corner of his mouth, he spoke defensively, "I have not eaten in five days."  
  
I noticed that he did look a bit thin.  
  
He continued eating, though more slowly. I let him finish, before I asked, "You have told me your name, but not who you are, or where you are from."  
  
"I suppose you are also curious to know how I came to be in such.unusual circumstances."  
  
I nodded.  
  
"Well," he began, "I think I told you that I am a ranger. It is my duty to patrol certain parts of Middle Earth, along with my fellow rangers. Eight days ago, while traveling on the edge of the wastelands, I was captured by Easterlings."  
  
"Easterlings?" I said in surprise. I was only vaguely familiar with the term.  
  
"Yes. They are wild and often dangerous men from the north, and have had a past of aligning themselves with the forces of Sauron and Mordor. I don't know what they were doing so far from their home, but I suspect that they were up to some evil business.. Anyway, I was attempting to find out when I was captured."  
  
He did not go into any detail and even looked a bit embarrassed. But he continued on with the story.  
  
"They stole my boots and treated me roughly, but they did not beat me, giving me water and food regularly. They were mostly decent. On the second day of my captivity, I tried to escape, but was unsuccessful. To keep me from escaping again, they binded me with the manacles you cut off. A slow, torturous device, they prevented any movement of my arms, which would strangle me, and the effort of holding up my arms caused me much discomfort. They loaded me onto a horse, a poor and sickly creature that it could barely support my weight.  
  
"It was on the end of the second day that Easterlings met with a group of orcs. I don't know what business transpired there, but I am certain that in some way the Easterlings angered the orcs. It might have even been my fault. The orcs had eyed me greedily, but the Easterlings refused to give me up. What they planned to do with me I shudder to think about.  
  
"On the third day, we left the orcs and were on our way again. We had entered into the edge of Mirkwood forest when we were ambushed by the very same orcs that they had dealings with. The orcs numbered about twice as many as we did, and before the Easterlings knew what had happened, more than half of them were dead; shot down by arrows.  
  
"The horse was shot down from under me, and I too was shot in the side. But I took the opportunity to escape, running into the forest in the opposite directions of the orcs. I was able to run no more than a league when I collapsed, able to go no further. When I awoke, I saw a handful of orcs nearby, apparently tracking me. I spent the rest of the day and night trying to evade them. It took up all my skill, and I was more or less helpless without the use of my arms. My wound was bleeding and grieving me, but I could do nothing to see to it. I was only able to sleep after I was convinced that I had lost them; and then the sleep was fitful.  
  
"I managed to drink some water from a stream, but otherwise, I had no food nor a way to eat it. I have traveled through Mirkwood on two occasions previously, so I knew about some of its dangers, and set about following one of the rives to find a main path. Then, on the sixth day, two days ago that is, a pack of wargs caught my trail. The whole day I spent running and hiding from them, at great abuse to my feet. I was completely worn out by the time you happened on me and drove off the wargs."  
  
He ended his story.  
  
I thought for a moment. "That explains a lot, if you are telling the truth, which I believe you are based on all evidence. But, Strider," I said, emphasizing his name, "you have not told me how you, a human, happen to be in the graces of Lord Elrond."  
  
He sighed. "I am tempted to tell you that that is none of your business. But, because you saved my life and are still probably looking for assurance that you did the right thing, I will. First of all, Strider is not my real name."  
  
I smiled triumphantly. That is what I had guessed, and I told him so.  
  
"Some call me that, and that is what I usually go by as a ranger. Do you know how many children Lord Elrond has?"  
  
"Yes," I said, puzzled. "He has three. I know all of them intimately. They have visited here many, many times."  
  
"It is your turn to surprise me," the man said, astonishment showing on his face. "For you to know all of Lord Elrond's children, you must be royalty."  
  
I brushed it aside with a bit of annoyance. I always hated to be treated differently because I am the son of Thanduril King of Mirkwood. "Yes, I am a prince; but that doesn't matter. Continue on."  
  
Strider continued. "Well, prince or not, you are wrong. He has four children, three of the elves and one a human, which he adopted into his family about 35 years ago."  
  
I nodded, remembering. My father had told me about it, but because it happened so recently, I was not yet accustomed to it and it had slipped my mind. "Yes, I remember. A small human boy named Estel. He has visited here once too, when he was very young."  
  
Strider grinned. "Well, Legolas, I am Estel."  
  
My jaw dropped. "You?" I stammered. "No, it can't be. You are lying. Estel is very young, not even half your size."  
  
Strider erupted, laughing so hard he had to grasp his injured side in pain. "Ah, my dear elf. How ignorant you are when it comes to humans. We grow very fast. It has been about thirty years since I visited and you saw me, though I do not remember you. That is half a life time for a mortal."  
  
"Estel?" I addressed him hesitantly. I still could not believe it. But I did remember him, as a small boy. He had brown hair and a cleft in his chin, and gray eyes that looked almost elven.  
  
He laughed some more, seeing recognition dawn on my face.  
  
....  
  
When my brother and the rest of my friends came back, Estel was sleeping again, still very tired form his journey. Their hunting trip had been completely successful, without any injury on part of the elves. I related Estel's story to all of them, but only told my brother his true name. All I can say is that he was more shocked than I was.  
  
After another three days, Estel was ready to travel again, but he refused to return with us to our home. He insisted that he had to return back to Imaldris, to tell Elrond about the strange events that had transpired with the orcs and the Easterlings.  
  
During his recovery, though the other elves talked with him and grew to like him, he and I became fast friends. Before he departed, he promised to return for a visit, and I knew that that was not the last I would be seeing him.  
  
......  
  
I was brought back to the present, at Elrond's Council, with Gandalfs story about the betrayal of Saruman. With one last thought in the past, I mused on how small the chances, and odd the circumstances, that Aragorn and I had met that day in Mirkwood.  
  
***  
  
THE END  
  
***  
  
Right, I'm so excited for my next fic! The whole Legolas and Aragorn meeting thing has been done over and over again, I know; but this is different and new and.Oh man am I excited!! But as for what it is exactly..you'll have to wait and find out : )  
  
Hopefully I can get it started in the next couple of days.  
  
Lastly, I'd like to sincerely thank everyone who reviewed for me: addicted, Wings of Change, Zan, Thorn Rose, nayru, Aralondwen, gemstone, Lina Skye, Thorn Rose, Nili, Rings of Saturn, Ashley, marbienl, staran, zipzoey, SSJ Girl, sparkley-purple-babe, LoP, and anyone else I forgot to mention. THANK YOU SO MUCH!  
  
And a special thank-you-kiss-the-hem-of-your-robes- to: Magpie Poet and ThE iNsAnE oNe!!! 


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